


The Landsmeet

by Anchanted_One



Series: The Dragons of our Age, and the Heroes who Walked with Them [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 08:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21115943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anchanted_One/pseuds/Anchanted_One





	The Landsmeet

The stands were packed. Every Bann who was still alive had turned up for the Landsmeet, the first one since the crowning of King Cailan, almost twenty years ago. Landsmeets only happened in matters that related to the whole land--every single Bannorn--when the throne was vacant, but could only be called by an Arl or Teyrn of influence.

Today’s Meet was something even rarer. It had been called by Arl Eamon of Redcliffe, but Teyrn Loghain—the self-declared Regent—had tried to call it off. He’d had the support of Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine, recently self-declared Teyrn of Highever, and self-declared Arl of Denerim. However, Queen Anora—Loghain’s own daughter—had come out in opposition to the Regent and reinforced the call to the Meet.    
And Howe’s support had become somewhat worthless when the man’s head was put up on a spike in the middle of the Market District, bearing the sign “Vengeance”. It had been put there by the youngest son of Teyrn Bryce Cousland, who had ruled Highever before his supposed “friend” Howe had betrayed him and occupied his castle. The Young Son’s rather savage action had been sanctioned by the Chantry, when the Grand Cleric had realized that the two emaciated people behind him were his parents, tortured almost beyond recognition. 

Lord Torren Cousland himself had earned the overwhelming support of the Bannorn when he had retaken his home with only a token force and a brief battle resulting in thirty dead Howe Loyalists, including Bann Kujel of Amaranthine, whom he had killed in single combat.

Following his victory, he had rallied some of the Banns to his banner and challenged Howe—and by extension, Loghain. Then he had gone and seized Amaranthine, with Tomas Howe standing down without a fight. Each of his subsequent four victories on the field had earned him more admiration and more support, until he had fought all the way to the gates of Denerim. While his act of putting Arl Howe’s head on a pike was rather extreme, even the Grand Cleric had accepted it.

Heavens—one of the soldiers who had been part of his escort was Loghain’s Sworn Sword Ser Cauthrien, who had also stood down, feeling sympathy for the grieving young man’s vengeance. Today promised to be a most interesting day. 

First to take the floor was Arl Eamon. He was wearing a suit of chainmail armor made of burnished red steel, which cast a bloody red reflection of the sunlight pouring in through the windows, making the floor around him appear blood-soaked.

“My Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet,” he said in a sonorous voice. “Teyrn Loghain would have us give up our freedoms, and our traditions, out of fear! He placed us on this path, yet we should put our destinies into  _ his _ hand? Must we sacrifice everything good about our nation to save it?”

His words drew strong applause from the gathered Banns. Some enthusiastic, some angry, some reluctant. But one pair of clapping hands took everyone’s attention; true to form, Teyrn Loghain wasted no time in his counterattack.

“A fine performance, Eamon! But no one here is taken in by it!” Loghain stood like a drawn sword in his somber plate mail, his war-prize from the Battle of the River Dane. “You would attempt to put a puppet on the throne, and every soul here knows it! The better question is, ‘who will pull the strings’? Well here stands the puppet,”He pointed first at Alistair. “And there stands the puppeteer!” he pointed at Tinian Mahariel, the leader of the tiny group of Wardens. 

The tattooed Dalish was so amused he almost fell over laughing. “Wait, are you serious shem? I’ve no interest in your petty affairs! Orlais, Ferelden, the Free Marches; it makes no difference to us elves—you all treat us like we’re filth! Only reason I’m fighting the Blight at all is because you, O ‘honored’ Teyrn, are too busy remembering old hatreds!”

Loghain’s face grew wild with rage at that. “Hatred?!” He roared. “Hate doesn’t  _ begin _ to describe it! I’ve seen painted, masked lords beat an old farmer to death with riding crops. To this day, I don’t know why. Is that hate? I saw good sensible men fight armored chevaliers with nothing—no weapons, no armies, not even hope of victory—all to see their occupation end. Is that hate? Very well then, it’s hatred. But know this, elf: I may hate Orlais, but I fight for Ferelden, for Maric! I do not want to see the sacrifice of thousands all turn out for nothing, and yet with your bastard Prince on the throne, do you think they would even need to send in an army? Or perhaps will they just dictate their will through him? It’s quite apparent that young Alistair was never allowed much will! A rank-and-file soldier is all he was expected to be, do you think he has the will to resist Orlais?”

“The Orlesians play their little games no matter the season,” Lord Torren Cousland—the young storm—took the stage. “So being wary of them is a good idea at the best of times. This is not the best of times, but there is a horde of Darkspawn on our doorstep!”

“There are enough refugees in my Bannorn alone to make that abundantly clear!” Bann Alfstanna said.

“The South has fallen, Loghain!” Arl Wulff spoke. “The Darkspawn will arrive at Denerim years before Orlais can!”

“The Darkspawn are indeed a real threat, Wulff!” Loghain agreed. “But do we need Grey Wardens to fight them? They claim that only they can end the Blights, yet they failed spectacularly at Ostagar, and they ask to bring with them four legions of chevaliers! And once they’re here, do we expect they’d just return to Orlais?”

“And so you were ‘forced’ to abandon your best friend’s son,” Cousland said scathingly. “Sanctioned the selling of elves as slaves to Tevinter!”

“What’s this?” Wulff cried above the shouts of outrage. “Slavery is illegal in Ferelden! It’s unconscionable!”

“I am a strategist by trade,” Loghain said. “A soldier! Conscience is a luxury I don’t need. The Alienage cannot be defended, the elves there cannot be fed in dark times. When the Darkspawn come they will die, or they would need forces dedicated to defend them that would sorely be missed elsewhere! Which fate is worse I wonder; to live as a slave, or die without hope in the alienage? I agreed to the slavers because it got people out of an indefensible part of the city and put coin in our depleted coffers! The whole kingdom is about to be lost, what did principle matter?”

The Banns continued to decry Loghain, but some seemed to find that convincing.

“How far would you go, Loghain?” Bann Sighard cried. “You sided with Arl Howe! Empowered him! Have you seen some of the things he’s done? Some of those wounds… Beyond even a healer’s skill! All for my estate in Denerim!”

“Howe was responsible for himself; he will answer to the Maker for the sins he has committed in life, as must we all. But you know that, don’t you, Young Storm? You were the one who murdered him!”

Lord Cousland’s eyes narrowed dangerously but Loghain pressed on. “Whatever Howe may have done, he should have been brought to the Seneschal. There is no justice in butchering a man in his own home.”

But he had gone too far. Even as Cousland growled ominously, Loghain’s newest challenger entered the field. A man who looked more ancient than he really was, emaciated, scarred, bruised. Unable to walk himself on his badly broken legs, he had ushered his attendant to wheel his chair forward from the sings, where they had stood. Right into Loghain’s face. Bryce Cousland, Teyrn of Highever.

“Do you remember me, Loghain?” He asked. Loghain, white faced, averted his eyes. “Look at me. Look at me! I invited that snake into my home, and he took it from me. Saved me from dying so that he could give me a prolonged, painful death. Me and Elanor.” Another chair had been wheeled up alongside his, this one bearing a woman. Elanor Cousland took up the thread. “But do you know what the worst torture was, Loghain? Not the tongs, or the irons, or the racks—it was the corpse of my grandson Oren. Howe nailed it there in our dungeon, allowed us to see it as it slowly rotted away. My little grandson, not even five years old. And Howe raged that he had not caught him alive either!”

“You speak of justice and seneschals?” Torren said in a voice as cold as the void itself. “When one of our guests’ ladies-in-waiting brought me here, a week after the massacre, I asked the King himself for it. You might remember; you were there! You were there as I recounted my tale, as Cailan vowed justice, as Anora herself supported! You left with the King for Ostagar, but when you returned you took Howe as your right hand! Yes, you speak of seeking justice properly, but I had already done that, and you—the self-proclaimed Regent—took his side! When I entered that dungeon I had every intention of letting Howe live and having his fate decided here, but what reasonable man could find his parents in such a state and then not act as I did? You allowed Howe into Kendall’s home  _ after _ you returned from Ostagar.  _ You _ named him Arl of Denerim, Teyrn of Highever,  _ you _ gave him more power than any but a King has held in Ferelden,  _ you _ enabled his cruelty! And  _ you _ talk to me about justice? Or of the abuse of power by the Orlesians?”

Under the combined fire of all three Couslands, Loghain reluctantly gave way. “Yes. I gave in to Howe. He had Highever and Amaranthine, he was already set up in Denerim when I returned, and I needed his considerable support to fight the Orlesians and the Darkspawn. It wasn’t an ideal choice, but I had to do it.”

“And what excuse do you have,” Eamon spoke up. “For saving a Maleficar from the Chantry’s Templars, for sending him to poison me, again in  _ my _ own home?”

“I assure you, Eamon, if I were going to send someone it would be my own soldiers, not trust the discretion of an aposta—”

“Indeed?” Alfstanna interrupted. “My brother Irminric was being held in Howe’s cells, and he had a different tale, of how you personally snatched a blood mage from the Chantry’s Justice. Coincidence?”

“Do not think the Chantry will overlook this, Teyrn Loghain!” Grand Cleric Elemena said angrily. “Interference against a templar’s most sacred duties is an offense against the Maker!”

“As the Maker himself told you, no doubt,” Loghain sneered. 

“Enough of this!” Torren Cousland called. “We have gathered today to settle the question of who will lead us during the Blight, and who ascends the throne. Do we still trust Teyrn Loghain to lead, or don’t we? It is time to get to it!” 

“Agreed!” Loghain responded. “Lords and Ladies… Ferelden has been threatened before. It’s been invaded, and lost, and won again times beyond counting! We Fereldens have proven that we cannot truly be conquered so long as we stand united! We must not allow yourselves to be divided now! Anora has proven herself as a queen capable of the Theirin name, and I can lead her armies! Stand with me, and we shall defeat this ‘Blight’ itself!”

“South Reach stands with Lord Cousland,” Arl Bryland shouted.

“Waking Sea stands with Lord Cousland!” Alfstanna affirmed.

“Dragon’s Peak supports Lord Cousland!” Bann Sighard said.

“The Western Hills throw their lot in with Cousland. Maker help us.” Arl Wulff seemed beyond disgusted at this point.

“We stand by our son,” Bryce Cousland said, voice weak. His wife, the Teyrna nodded. “Not that it even needs saying.” 

“I stand by Teyrn Loghain!” Old Bann Cleoric shouted. “We have no hope otherwise.”

But he was the sole voice in favor of Loghain. The Landsmeet overwhelmingly supported Torren Cousland, the Young Storm. Chants of “Lord Torren!” and “Young Storm!” echoed throughout the chamber.

“‘Young Storm’,” Loghain chuckled ruefully. “Wasn’t it I who gave you that name two years ago? After you defeated a bandit raid with only five men?”

“Indeed it was.”

“The rest of you!” Loghain roared. “Which one of you stood against the Orlesian Emperor as his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives? None of you deserve a say in what happens here! None of you have spilled blood for this land the way I have! How dare you judge me!”

“I spilled a few cartloads of Darkspawn blood, do I get a vote?” Alistair interrupted. When Loghain glared at him, Alistair just smiled back cheekily.

“I have lost my sons to this Blight Loghain,” Wulff reminded him. “While you rail on about Orlais!”

“I fought just as you did,” Teyrn Cousland said. “Longer—for I was holding a sword before I was yet ten years old!”

But they were silenced when Torren stepped forward almost face-to-face with Loghain. “Call off your soldiers Loghain! If you will not heed the verdict of the Meet, what will satisfy you?”

“An honorable duel,” Loghain said. “Let the Landsmeet declare the terms.”

“It shall be fought according to tradition,” Alfstanna proclaimed. “A test of arms in single combat until one party yields, and we shall abide by the outcome.”

“So be it,” Loghain said. He clearly held no illusions that he could beat the young warrior at his age, but he did not falter. He stood tall. Proud. “Ser Cauthrien, give me my sword.”

The woman stepped to his side and bowed. “Begging your pardon, my Teyrn. But  _ I _ am your Sword. I will fight in your stead, as is my duty and my privilege. You know I can hold my own even against Lord Cousland.”

“Cauthrien, you really don’t have to—”

“But I must, my Teyrn. And I will.”

“That’s one fight you know you can’t win, isn’t it Loghain?” Torren asked. He nodded at Ser Cauthrien, who nodded back. She was already donned in her silverite chainmail. She drew her greatsword, Summer, and stood at the ready.

Torren Cousland sighed. His shoulder was still injured from his fight against Howe’s rabid wolves, but he would—

“You’re not in this alone either, you know.” Cira stopped him. She pointed behind, and he looked. Alistair, Tinian Mahariel, Karita Surana, Oghren, Leliana, Wynne, Morrigan, Shale, and Zevran all stood behind him, allies in his fight.

Torren looked at each one of them in turn, before bringing his gaze back to Cira. “You’re right, Cira. And since you carry my sword—like Ser Cauthrien bears Loghain’s—I think it’s fitting that you fight as my champion.”

“We are each other’s champions, my friend,” she smiled. She had also come dressed for a fight today; she was wearing a leather armor over a purple coat. “Till the end of our days.”

* * *

Ser Cauthrien and Cira Tabris squared off in the center of the Landsmeet chamber, where a space had been cleared for them. Cauthrien raised her sword in salute, and Cira drew Ashurewing and responded in kind. 

This had been the older of the two swords owned by the Cousland family for generations. It had been the one passed down to Teyrna Alathea when she fought against King Calenhad, and had continued all the way to Torren. And though it wasn’t as richly adorned as Wrayneburn, it looked every bit the ancestral family treasure it was.   
Gasps of wonder emerged from those present as the blue blade caught the sunlight, rippling along its length. 

And that was before Cira began her attack. In her hand, thin blade became a blur of azure wind probing Ser Cauthrien’s offense from multiple directions, but the veteran fighter remained undaunted; the attacks she couldn’t block with her blade she took with her armor, the silverite absorbing most of the impact. 

After a pair of rapid exchanges, Cira was certain that this woman was probably more skilled a warrior than Torren. Definitely more experienced—the woman had a far greater economy of motion than he did, making only the slightest movements to bring up either her blade or her armor to negate her enemy’s attack. And when she did attack, her swings were powerful and had enough impact to throw her backwards and into the air. They left her feeling rattled, and her body numb. 

She didn’t stay on the offensive long, preferring to wear down her enemy rather than tire herself out. Cira attacked with more precision and care than before but had to retreat beyond the greatsword’s deadly reach when she sensed the attack coming. She barely avoided having to take another rattling blow.

No question, if Ser Cauthrien had been fighting the injured Torren, she would win. If Cira were to win, she had to outmaneuver her now. Luckily for her, she recognized the forms that the Knight was using; both from her sparring with Torren, and her mother Adaia’s training, and it gave her just enough insight into Ser Cauthrien’s technique to begin adapting to it subtly. 

After a few more rapid exchanges, Cira was coming out far less worn down, getting used to her opponent’s attacks. The human, busy with regulating her own defense and stamina, didn’t notice. For all her skill, Cauthrien didn’t have Torren’s battle instincts or his natural grasp of the flow of battle. He would have chosen now to change tactics at this point, but Ser Cauthrien remained locked in her mode of fighting.

Cira was glad she had listened to Torren’s philosophy of grasping the flow of battle, and predicting its course just a little bit before it happened. Cira foresaw her window arrive just a second before it did, but in a fight like this, a single second could prove pivotal.

Just as Ashurewing connected with Summer, Cira tossed a pair of small throwing knives with her other hand. Each knife struck an eye although only one went deep enough to remain in her socket, and Ser Cauthrien fell screaming. Cira was impressed when the human tried to stand again, blindly reaching for the sword which had slipped out of her distracted grip, but this fight was already over.

She kicked the woman off her feet, then ripped off her helmet and lowered the coif protecting her neck, pointing her dagger at her exposed throat. 

“Do you yield?” She asked.

Ser Cauthrien shook her head painfully. “I have lived as a warrior. I want to die as one.”

“Very well.” With a quick slash, Cira opened Ser Cauthrien’s jugular, catching her before she fell. She held the human as she died, lowering her reverently when life had left her.

* * *

“So what’s it to be now, Young Storm? I suppose I die now?”

“Wait!” Riordan, Senior Grey Warden of Jader interrupted. Aside from the three Junior Wardens—Mahariel, Surana, and Alistair—he was the only Warden in Ferelden, having entered the country covertly after the defeat at Ostagar and Loghain’s subsequent banning of the Order. He had been freed from Arl Howe’s dungeons.

He had since been a silent observer, recovering from his brief captivity and torture. But now, he stepped out into the open. 

“Wait!” He said again. “There is another option. The Teyrn is a warrior and general of great renown. Let him be of use, and go through the Joining. There are four of us in all of Ferelden, and there are compelling reasons to have as many on hand when the Archdemon appears.”

“Absolutely not!” Alistair burst out. “This man abandoned our brothers and blamed  _ us _ for the deed! He hunted us like animals, he had you tortured! How can we simply forget that?”

“The Joining itself is often fatal, is it not?” Anora pleaded. “If he survives, you gain another Warden. If he dies, you have your revenge.”

“This isn’t about revenge,” Torren said. “Justice must be done. I leave the decision of whether he undergoes the Joining to the Wardens. But whether or not he dies is up to the Meet. Speaking for myself, I don’t think his proven crimes warrant execution. He abandoned his King, but we cannot refute his claim that he simply saw the battle as already lost, that it was the King himself who deliberately placed himself in harm’s way. We have no established motive for his betrayal.” He glowered at Loghain, plainly wondering if Loghain would now change his stance. He didn’t.

“Wait,” Karita said. “I might have something that qualifies as motive. When we returned to Ostagar, we uncovered his correspondence with Empress Celene of Orlais—”

Eamon paled. Torren, Loghain, and Anora turned sharply towards Karita, who fidgeted under the sudden shift of focus. But she was now committed. She coughed, then reached inside her pouch for a small waterproof pouch. She withdrew a small stack of letters and selected three bearing the royal seal of Ferelden, and the Imperial Seal of Orlais.

The letters were handed to the Grand Cleric’s assistant, who squinted at the parchments then began to read aloud.

* * *

“ _ To his Majesty, King Cailan of Ferelden:My Warden-Commander assures me that we face a Blight. This thing threatens us both, and we must work together to fight it, lest it devour all. Our two nations have not had a happy history, but that is all it is--history. It is the future that is at stake now. Let us put aside our fathers' disagreements so that we may secure the future for both our countries. My Chevaliers stand ready and will accompany the Grey Wardens of Orlais to Ferelden. At your word the might of Orlais will march to reinforce the Ferelden forces. _ _   
_ _ Sincerely, Empress Celene I _ ”

* * *

The assistant put away the letter carefully and went on to the next.

* * *

“ _ Your Majesty, My men will arrive as soon as possible to bolster your forces. Maker willing, this Blight will be ended before it has begun. Cailan, I beseech you, as your uncle, not to join the Grey Wardens on the Field. You cannot afford to take this risk. Ferelden cannot afford it. Let me remind you again that you do not have an heir. Your death--and it pains me even to think of it--would plunge Ferelden into chaos. _

_ And yes, perhaps when this is over you will allow me to bring up the subject of your heir. While a son from both the Theirin and Mac Tir lines would unite Ferelden like no other, we must accept that perhaps this can never be. The queen approaches her thirtieth year and her ability to give you a child lessens with each passing month. I submit to you again that it might be time to put Anora aside. We parted harshly the last time I spoke of this, but it has been a full year since then and nothing has changed. _ _   
_ _ Please, nephew, consider my words, and Andraste's grace be with you. _ _   
_ _ Your humble servant, _ _   
_ __ Eamon Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe ”

* * *

Loghain looked incensed, and Anora had gone whiter than snow. The Grand Cleric’s assistant then opened the final letter and began to read.

* * *

“ _ Cailan, _ _   
_ _ The visit to Ferelden will be postponed indefinitely, due to the darkspawn problem. You understand, of course? The darkspawn have odd timing, don't they? Let us deal with them first. Once that is done, we can further discuss a permanent alliance between Orlais and Ferelden. _ _   
_ __ Celene. ”

* * *

There was absolute silence for a few minutes as everyone digested the words. No one failed to notice the familiar tone used in the third letter, and the logical conclusion was disturbing.

“ _ How dare you! _ ” Loghain howled at Eamon. If he had been angry at the suggestion for his only daughter to be set aside, he was doubly livid about who she was apparently being set aside for. “Traitor! After all of the death and sacrifice to secure Ferelden’s borders, you hand it—and our King—back to the Orlesians on a silver platter?”

Arl Eamon was pale and shaking. “Cailan was responsible for his own—”

“Don’t try to pass the blame!” Anora seethed. “Cailan was a lovable fool—and I love him with all my heart—but he was a fool nonetheless! And he loved me! He would never have considered leaving me—especially not for Empress  _ Celene _ —” she spat that name like it was poison. “How could you even think that was a good idea?”

“It was necessary!” Eamon asserted. “We needed a peace, even an alliance between Orlais and Ferelden, and this would be a permanent solution—”

“No it wouldn’t,” Torren growled. “Not in a way favorable to us! Any child of Empress Celene would be heir to the Orlesian Empire first, and the throne of Ferelden second! There would be a huge risk of them subjugating and subordinating our nation to Orlais yet again! We’d be lackeys and inferiors to the Orlesian court; something King Maric, Teyrn Loghain, my Father,  _ and you _ once fought hard to avoid!”

“Even if their child didn’t become Emperor or Empress,” Alfstanna said. “Having us play the same games as those of the Orlesian Court would be disastrous for us! Can’t you imagine the hundreds of ways the Orlesian nobles would take advantage of this?”

“There’s no way you—consummate politician that you are—failed to see this!” Elanor Cousland spoke hoarsely. “Were you trying to sell out your nation?”

“No!” The Arl shook his head defiantly. “I did what I had to for Ferelden! For peace!”

“Enough!” Karita shouted. “Enough,  _ PLEASE _ !” She released a ripple of cool wind that left frost on everyone’s hair and eyelashes, and when everyone calmed down and turned their attention back to her she continued. “Whether the Arl of Redcliffe has committed treason or not—well, can’t you decide that later? I showed these letters to present a motive. For the Teyrn to want King Cailan dead, I mean. From talking with Anora, I am certain he was aware of the possibility that she might face annulment.”

Loghain was still glaring daggers at Arl Eamon, looking dangerously close to a berserk rage. With difficulty he turned his back on Eamon and looked Karita directly in the eye. “Yes, I was aware of the possibility, but I am a loyal son of Ferelden first! Killing Cailan just for my petty revenge—or worse, for my own benefit or Anora’s that she can continue to rule—the chaos that would ensue! I would never! However I do proudly admit that if I knew Cailan was planning on betraying his own people by marrying that harpy Celen, I  _ would _ have killed him and admitted to it! Whatever else you think of me, I put my nation first Warden.”

Torren shook his head. “What a Maker-damned mess. Everyone’s so sure that they know what’s best that their hasty actions have brought us to the brink. Loghain, Eamon, Uldred, Bhelen Aeducan…” He looked at Riordan. “I don’t suppose Archdemons have some supernatural power to twist the minds of major political leaders to suit their advantage, do they?”

“We do not know for certain,” Riordan said. “But it’s probable that they bring some form of catastrophe. Each Blight was marked by heavy discord and instability. The Old Gods are certainly credited with having such power that even the Tevinter Magisters worshipped them.”

“In any case,” Torren said, addressing the assembled Lords and Ladies. “We don’t know enough about whether Loghain willfully conspired against the King. A trial may be called in future if evidence comes to light, but for now the charge of treason stands no more.”

“His plot to kill Arl Eamon with the use of a Maleficar has enough evidence to go to a full trial—one held by both the Chantry and the Throne.” Grand Cleric Elemena clapped the railing twice in approval.

“But on the charge of authorizing slavery you are undeniably guilty—and by your own admission!” The Meet chamber broke out in murmured conversations. “The punishment for which is a life sentence.”

“After all he has done… That is not enough!” Alistair cried. “I don’t want to claim Cailan’s name, and the throne, but if it’s the only way to see justice done, then I will do it!”

“He wants to be king just so that he can have his revenge,” Anora spoke up. “That makes him unfit to be one!”

“Alistair, if you do become King today,” Torren said quietly. “It will be your duty to uphold the law. That means you will have to follow it yourself. Do not walk down the path of a despot.”

Alistair regarded him for a moment, then backed down silently. “Oh, fine! But he is definitely  _ not _ going through the Joining! I refuse to call him Brother.”

Tinian nodded. Karita said, “I agree.” Riordan shook his head and said something that Torren did not quite catch.

“There we have it then,” Torrent turned back to the Landsmeet. “The decision is that Loghain goes to prison and I will lead Ferelden’s armies against the Blight. But we need to settle the debate on our next Monarch. Queen Anora has ruled well enough with King Cailan, and Alistair is the son of Maric. But we need to remember that a smooth succession is the King or Queen’s responsibility just as much as ruling in their own lifetime is. As a Warden, Alistair cannot have children. Nor, it appears, can Anora. Whichever one of them takes the throne today—or both, if we can convince them of the need—” neither Anora nor Alistair looked anything short of repulsed by the notion. “We also need to establish the next in line as well. Both today, and in the future. If their reign were to end without a clear heir, we risk civil war again. We may either need to agree in advance to a Landsmeet to elect a king in the best case, or foreign nations will take advantage of the power vacuum. I suggest we think on these matters and reconvene tomorrow—or perhaps even after the Blight—before we decide who gets the throne.”

“Or,” Anora stepped forward. “We consider another candidate. A hero who has proven their personal strength, their will, and their prowess on the Battlefield.” A hush of anticipation descended over the assembly. “Lord Torren Cousland, I believe your great-great Grandmother was of Theirin blood, yes?”

“A few more greats than that, I think,” Torren said uneasily. 

“That, along with the other merits I mentioned, would make you the best qualified heir to Ferelden’s Throne! My Lords and Ladies of the Meet; you know me, have seen me rule for the past ten years. You know that I am a wonderful Queen. While Cailan played at being King, often ignored his duties to tour the countryside or train with the men, it was  _ I _ who ruled. And I ruled well! I who maintained peace and justice, who made all the decisions. Alistair, however good a man he may be, has shown neither the interest to lead nor the background to rule. I deserve to be Queen, and I shall be. With Lord Torren crowned as Prince, and my heir.”

The Landsmeet Chamber fell quiet. The silence was broken by Bann Sighard. “Why crown  _ you _ Queen at all? You say that you did almost all of the ruling in Cailan’s stead, but we only have  _ your _ word for it.”

“It is well known that it was the King’s Council was what made most of the decisions, Anora,” Bann Loren said. “It’s also an open secret that you hindered more than helped when you tried to rule; that you sometimes tried to recommend your favorites to the Council, and to key posts.”

“You certainly did lead His Majesty along by the nose,” Ban Alfstanna said. “If he was an easily led fool, you added to the factors that made him so, to your own benefit.”

“What?” Anora drew herself up indignantly. “But I—!”

Cira Tabris seemed to have decided she’d earned the right to get a few words in. “Justice has always been terrible here in Denerim. Why do you think Lord Vaughan was able take his men to raid the Alienage for women to rape in broad daylight? Mercenary companies attacking City Guards in the open? A den of Blood Mages right within spitting distance of the Royal Palace? And how did you fail to notice your father authorize slavers, if you were so good? If you were indeed the one who handled  _ everything _ as King Cailan played around, then you didn’t even keep your capital clean.”

“You are the one who killed Lord Vaughan Kendal!” Cleoric shouted at Cira. “A murderer! You cannot speak here!”

“Oh shut up, Cleoric,” Alfstanna said. “In her place, anyone could only hope to do the same. She has my respect for her heroism.”

“As Lord Torren’s Champion it is her right to speak here,” Arl Bryland said. “And no one can deny her skill or prowess in a fair fight!”

Several Lords agreed to that heartily.

“Even if you don’t want to hear her, Serah Tabris’ points are quite valid,” Teyrn Cousland said. “And if I may say so, you were the one who authorized Howe’s entry into Denerim. From my son’s account you knew what Howe had done, but you let him in, let him seize the Arl of Denerim’s home, and stood by as he made his alliance with Loghain. One might suspect he had your backing from the start. In short, as Teyrn I refuse to give you my backing as Monarch.”

Torren seemed not to have considered that. “Anora, tell me that’s not true!”

“It is  _ not _ true!” She replied, standing her full height. But her protestation appeased no one; she was a known orator and stateswoman. Far as most of the Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet were concerned, lying to their faces seemed quite a believable skill for her to possess. Suspicious stares peered down at her from all over the Chamber.

Anora looked mightily displeased, seemed to believe that her fierce glare was enough to cow her dissenters into line. But when none folded, she backed down still looking mutinous.

Arl Eamon, following the reveal of the letters’ contents, seemed too cowed to speak, and Torren had grown mostly troubled and silent since his name had been suggested—other than his shock at the possibility of Anora’s treachery. So it was Alfstanna who decided to rouse the Landsmeet for its final leg.

“And there we have our newest suggestion; Lord Torren Cousland as King of Ferelden. By right of ability, by right of will, by right of blood. What says the Landsmeet?”

The response was overwhelming. People standing a block away heard as the Chamber erupted with one word. “AYE!”

“Then My Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet, I give you your new King! All Hail King Torren Cousland, the Young Storm!”

Cheers erupted throughout the Landsmeet. “King Torren!” “Young Storm!” “TORREN!” “TORREN!”.


End file.
